The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [26]
Not that it troubled Modig unduly. No one was waiting for him at home and he was still feeling unusually alert. His vacation was due to start soon. He had taken off more days than usual and booked a trip to Mexico departing on December 23. When the call came he was wondering what the food would be like. His experiences with so-called Mexican food in Sweden had not filled him with great expectations.
“Someone has strangled Ansgar!” a woman said, clearly distraught.
Modig had little patience with people who panted or even breathed audibly on the phone.
“Please calm yourself,” he said.
“But he’s dead!”
“Who’s dead?”
“Ansgar! I already told you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Gunilla Karlsson.”
She wasn’t breathing as heavily now.
“Where do you live?”
The woman managed to tell him her address with some difficulty, and Modig wrote it down in his usual scrawl.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I walked out onto the patio and there he was, hanging on the fence.”
“Ansgar?”
“Yes. I saw at once that he was dead. And he’s not even mine. How am I ever going to explain this? Malin is going to be devastated.”
“Who is Ansgar?”
“My neighbor’s rabbit.”
Modig couldn’t help smiling. He made a sign to Tunander, who had just walked in, and wrote “dead rabbit” on the pad of paper so that he could read it.
“And you found him on your patio?”
“I was looking after him. They’re away on a trip and I was going to look after Ansgar while they were gone. I was supposed to give him food and water every morning.”
“Did someone string him up or did he get caught on the fence?”
“He has a rope around his neck. He was murdered.”
Does killing a rabbit qualify as murder? Modig wondered as he wrote “murdered” on the pad of paper.
“When did you see him last?”
Tunander left the room chuckling.
“Last night as I was checking on him. Oh, dear God,” she said, and Modig knew she was thinking of her neighbor, Malin.
“Do you have any idea who would be likely to strangle a rabbit?” Modig asked and was suddenly hit by a wave of fatigue.
The woman started to tell him about the care of the rabbit in great detail. Modig stared into space. He heard voices of other officers coming from the area of the building called the Sea.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Modig said kindly.
“Will someone come out? I have to go in to work. Should I let Ansgar hang there?”
Modig thought for a moment.
“Let him stay where he is,” he said finally.
Tunander came back with a cup of coffee.
“How can you name a rabbit Ansgar?” Modig asked when he hung up.
“What kind was it?” Tunander asked.
“What kind?”
“There are all kinds of different breeds. Didn’t you know that?”
He sat down.
“How did it go?”
“Just some dents,” Tunander said and was immediately serious. “Some bitch drove right into me.”
He shook his head. Modig got up.
“Anything to report?” Tunander asked.
“It’s been quiet. A few calls about Little John.”
“Anything of substance?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Modig said absently.
He felt exhausted. Mexico was definitely the right decision.
“He was white,” he said.
“Who?”
“Ansgar,” Modig said and heaved himself out of his chair.
Modig left the building, not to return for another fourteen days, just as a meeting concerning the case of John Jonsson was called to order in the large conference room. The assembled group consisted of the usual people from the Violent Crimes Division, Morenius from the Crime Information Service, forensic specialist Ryde, Julle and Aronsson from the Patrol Division, and Rask, who headed the public relations team. A total of twenty or so individuals in all.
Ottosson presided over the meeting. He was getting better at it. Haver glanced at him. He was sitting on Ottosson’s left side, where Lindell normally sat. It was as if Ottosson sensed what he was thinking about, because at that precise moment he put his hand on Haver’s arm, looked at him, and smiled, just like he always did with Ann Lindell.
The touch lasted only a fraction of a second, but the smile was warm and the nod Ottosson gave him filled